


Fire and Ice

by Gail Riordan (lferion)



Category: Batman Begins
Genre: Catharsis, Gift Fic, Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-25
Updated: 2005-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-09 07:38:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/84628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lferion/pseuds/Gail%20Riordan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Ducard, some nice heavy duty chains and playthings a plenty..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fire and Ice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Temve](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Temve/gifts).



> Inspired by the post and comments here: http://temve.livejournal.com/312942.html?thread=1910126#t1910126 Written as a Yule present for Temve.

In fire, he screams.

In fire, on fire, seemingly made of fire, all stoicism is ash, all resolution melts.

It is not fear (though, indeed, it is fire he fears, has always feared). Fear is a freezing, a paralysis he uses his formidable mind to overcome. His fear of fire is cold, and he understands it, uses it, very, very well.

Nor is it pain. Pain, too, is an old acquaintance, a friend, even a lover. The fire burns hotly, agonizingly exquisite, but not such as to invoke a neuro-physiological reaction.

Surprise? Hardly. Henri Ducard is rarely surprised, and those rare occasions are marked by expressions too faint and fleeting for any but the most skilled and knowledgeable to read. There is only one living being so endowed, and he has his mind, (and eyes, and hands,) on other ... things ... at present. Not surprise.

Knowledge. And the freedom knowing brings.

This is the price of long chastity; of knowing and choosing not to act.

(He had loved his wife, had loved making love with her. Everything about her had aroused him, made him burn to quench himself in her flesh, her love, become one with the fire in her eyes. But he had been very young, and very, very ignorant. It was _her_ he loved, not her femaleness. Her breasts aroused because they were hers, not because they were breasts. Her welcoming flesh welcoming because it was hers. Her death had driven him mad. Desperate and mad he had sought the means to take vengeance. The knowledge. The skill. He had found both in a man who towered over the general run of humankind only a little less than he did, and whose nose was even more imposing. "Man" he had called himself in that now-forgotten tongue, and man he most certainly had been. So much he had learned from him - not least to know himself. )

A cold hand touches his burning flesh. A slick, cold bulk impales him, beautifully filling him, brutally stretching him wide. He does not know what Bruce is fucking him with. It is hard and heavy and thicker than anything he has taken before. It does not matter. He will discover it later, and return the favour. Balance. But not now.

Now he screams: the seared screams of fire and need; the screams of raw ecstasy at the freedom from silence, knowing none will hear but the one who understands the gift; the hoarse, breathless, nearly silent screams of extremity and release.

His body bucks against the cold stone, the unyielding armour-clad man. Bruce has not let him come, though there has been a release, an internal explosion of sensation. His skin burns, hyper-aware, feeling the air currents, the places where Bruce has touched him, will touch him. Shuddering spasms radiate from his arse, liquifying his knees, shattering his breath.

He is free, in this timeless moment, to shatter. Bruce is as broken as he. Balance.

A low, thudding rumble thrums in his ears. The thing in him, stretching and filling, begins to move, vibrating his bones. His scream now is more of a moan as heavy, steady pulses roll through him, shake him. He knows that any more will be too much, but this ... this is unbearably, perfectly right.

Bruce knows too, knows this pounding, lets the moment stretch, chill leather constraining fire within and without. He knows Bruce is naked in the suit, naked and hard and ready to explode inside the leather and rubber and mesh. How long will Bruce let the moment hold - how long can *he* hold as his flesh trembles, tightens, burns? A moment longer. Another. He feels Bruce's eyes on him, on the deepening flush staining his pale skin, rising from groin to sternum to flame high on his cheeks. Only one other has seen that flush. His eyes were hazel, Bruce's are brown, and black with desire, avidly drinking in each bead of sweat, each hitch and gasp of breath.

Icy black bronze kisses his incandescent prick and he screams again, a torn sound between a gasp and a choke. The pounding in his arse has become a heartbeat ratcheting each nerve and fibre tighter. Bruce looks up at him. Their eyes meet.

A long, ragged inhale, chest heaving. Both fire and ice flicker between them.

Then Bruce swoops, kneels, and swallows him whole.

This time he roars as he flies apart.

He knows Bruce will catch him before he falls.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the hazel-eyed man with the really impressive nose is Methos.


End file.
